Day 3 Friday May 28

Happy Birthday Yasmeen! Here's the melon I would have bought for you, if I could afford it. The Japanese have a very high sense of obligation in their society. So there are specialty shops that sell simple pieces of fruit at exorbitant prices. The idea is, if someone does you a favor, then you have to one-up their favor in return. So you buy them an incredibly expensive melon with distinct packaging from one of these famous specialty stores, and then they know exactly how much that melon cost you, and next time they get you something even bigger...and so it goes. This one costs about $140 US.



We woke up early and, after some increasingly desperate phone calls, finally secured a hotel three subway stops north, at a place called Nezu, near Ueno. We took our bags along to the ryokan, achingly, sweating in the chill air, with the now-familiar frantic searching for escalators, but were pleasantly surprised to find that our room was ready for us. So we dropped off our bags and cleaned up a bit, then rented two bikes from the ryokan, for 200 Yen--about 3 dollars--apiece. The bikes were beyond rusty and the brakes screamed in protest whenever the gentlest pressure was applied, which was, we soon learned, actually an extra safety feature meant to terrify any persons around us so they would stay out of our way. We circled around to the east first, through the three ponds that make Shinobanzo, among ducks and a few irises starting to bloom, into a sleazy-looking district actually quite close to Akhihabara, the electronics and nightlife centre of the city. We had unmemorable ramen for lunch from a chain restaurant and then headed west. Our goal today was Chinzanso Gardens, near where Darryl used to live.

It was a long journey, especially for butts still sore from yesterday's bike adventures. We wove in and out of many people, up narrow congested hills and down streets where the worst danger was meeting another bike flying in the opposite direction around a corner. We managed to avoid all but some sprinkles of rain and arrived at last in a little neighborhood outside D's landlord's shop. We parked our bikes and went in through the open shopfront.




The landlord was a kindly, tall man with a grin that crinkled his whole face, and he and D talked delightedly in broken languages. His wife, a tiny black haired old woman, chattered away to them, and without stopping, turned to me to include me in the conversation, I smiled helplessly at her, not understanding a word, but she didn’t seem to mind; she just kept chattering and I kept smiling. At last she gestured to her teeth in a brushing motion and hurried out, for her dental appointment. I watched her extract her bike from a mass of others, hop on and pedal expertly away. We said goodbye to the landlord, who presented D with a little china plate with a shiny bit of sushi on it; only when D tucked it into his backpack did I realise it was plastic.



We couldn't find the proper entrance to the gardens, so instead we snuck in through the 4 Seasons Hotel, a veritable palace of green marble, wide paintings and gold banisters, and popped out onto a deep green garden walkway lined with a 1000 year old temple and stone statues of the Seven Gods of Fortune. Each god had a plaque explaining the blessings he bestowed, and a little money box in his lap for the offerings of the hopeful. The temple building and the statues had been stolen from Kyoto 80-100 years ago and set up here. We left the garden through a passageway behind a waterfall, all artificially designed, each tiny bansai carefully pruned and each rock perfectly placed. We walked by the chapel full of stained glass where rich people come to marry. The sky looked stormy, and we turned for home.



Somehow we made it back, bought some super expensive imported cherries and bananas from the market across the street, hurried to our ryokan, showered, changed, and were on the subway to Akihabara, Electric Town.

We met Darryl’s old friend Takis, from Italy, who took us and his quiet wife and three other Italian visitors to to a maid café, a unique Japanese institution where mostly male patrons go to be served by cheerful, singing, dancing girls dressed like French maids. Their very short skirts revealed only layers of lacy knickers, and the atmosphere was more cute and fun than raunchy or naughty. The food was mixed. D didn't enjoy his rice omelette, even after one of the maids drew him a cat face in ketchup on it, but I quite liked having an ice cream sundae for dinner. The others had cake, chicken nuggets, mini sausages, or pasta. Every time the “maids” served us food or a drink we had to copy their hand gestures and repeat magic words at the top of our lungs-- Takis said the words were just silly things like “happy happy!” or “delicious food!” Then every table would cheer and clap. There were about twenty other patrons there when we were, all men, but nothing scandalous was going on, everyone seemed to just be having fun.



We took a photo with the maids, and then headed down to street level, but the night wasn’t quite over. Just around the corner from the elevator, one of us noticed an alley under the building. It was lined with lifesized cardboard cutouts of manga characters, and the walls were covered in x-rated anime porn posters. We all took some pamphlets, for souvenirs. Not sure how we’re going to get that through Customs!